Black Flames
by HugAZombie
Summary: OLD! It seems that even love is not enough to override Pendragon propaganda. I am here to offer you one time, one moment, one last chance to redeem yourself. I suggest that you take it." Character death/Slash in later chapters. Unbeta'd
1. Prologue: Enemy

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricists. _

_**Notes: **__First multi-chaptered fic. I'm quite excited and a lot scared. Sorry if I don't do the characters justice. May be a little dark in some parts. May not. I dunno. Unbeta'd._

_**Sorry it took so long, I was concentrating on other things, but I am now working on this exclusively for the next few days so expect lots of updates. There will be approx. 8 chapters, including the epilogue **___

_**Media:**__ TV series obviously. _

_**Spoilers: **__Quite a few from both seasons. _

_**Characters:**__Merlin and Arthur Pendragon._

**Prologue: Enemy**

"_I have made you an enemy." – __Enemy, Flyfleaf. _

He had almost expected the flames to burn black.

That morning the sun had arisen as was perfectly normal, warming the cobblestones of the lower streets and castle alike. It didn't seem to care a damn that shining so brilliantly, in such a pure azure and cloudless sky, was a hideous contradiction to the cruelty about to be scripted by its' subjects below. Larks sang praises in the trees, seeking the shelter and shade they provided from the weak heat of the sun, their wings disturbing the leaves as they flicked off the dust and dirt of sleep. The morning breeze flowed languidly through the twisted lines of the streets, whispering the secrets of summer through curtains and doorways, lulling inhabitants into a false sense of security, leading them to believe that perhaps today would be as perfect as it appeared.

But like many a thing upon Gods good earth, the beauty of the morning was only skin deep. As the molten black of the night past slunk back into the shadows to give way to the more brilliant pinks and oranges of sunrise, Arthur had stood, restless by his window, watching, observing, studying.

In the centre of the main courtyard, an assembly of wood and hay was slowly being erected; a testament of terror to those who dared to disobey the most enforced law of King Uther's Kingdom. A large wooden base had been constructed through the night, sturdy and solid enough to hold both the prisoner and four guards, whom the task of igniting the dry hay would fall to. A large pole had also been put in pride of place in the centre of the block, and Arthur had watched as guards threw bales of hay about the foot of the pole.

That morning had been ever so slow, Arthur reflects, looking down at the crowded courtyard from a new perch, with a better view of the punishment. He is not separated by glass and darkness here. Here he stands out on the balcony of his fathers' great castle, standing straight-backed and expressionless behind his fathers' right shoulder. Here he can observe the crowds gathering, harkening but not understanding the petrified and scandalised whispers of the masses. Here he can spot Gaius and Gwen standing among the front line, a distraught Hunith clutching desperately to Gwen's modest dress, sobbing broken-heartedly into her shoulder. Gwen's expression is surprisingly blank, but even Arthur, from his place high above them, can see the tears trickling down her sun-kissed cheeks. But her head is held high and she holds Hunith, not through duty, but through the same, if quieter, grief. Gaius himself is also been expressionless, a large, aged hand squeezing his old friends' shoulder in a vain attempt at comfort. His wise eyes are dead of spirit and haloed in a heavy black bruise after many a night of begging and pleading with the king to reconsider his options and spare the life that ends today.

But then, he thinks, he hadn't even been safe holed up in his room alone with his conflictions, for Morgana, fuming with a heated, betrayed fury and seemingly inconsolable grief and barged right in, shoving the armed guards aside and slamming the door shut.

She had lingered there for a moment, facing the door with her shaking palms pressed against the cool wood. She was dressed only in her nightly shift, a thin piece of fabric which done little to properly conceal any of her modesty. She was pale beyond recognition, her regal and superior stance diminished to a simpler, more humble shaking stoop of one who has lost something precious.

And Arthur had wanted to comfort her. But Arthur had known better.

"Why, Arthur?" she had managed to force out of quivering lips a moment later, turning from the door but making no move to step forward. "Why? Why did you tell?"

"Magic is evil." The simple answer. It was a statement Arthur had been – still is – clinging to like a lifeline. He has to, to lose that mentality would be to bid farewell to his sanity.

"But... Merlin..." Morgana moved forward then, hands thrust forward as to grab Arthur's and beg, but she dropped them to her side helplessly. She had already done all the begging and grovelling she could, she had used every dirty and underhanded trick to try and get the humble and clumsy servant off the pyre but to no avail. Uther's choice had been made, and no physician or ward was going to change that. Uther's hatred knew no bounds. "Merlin is not evil... not Merlin... _never_..."

Arthur clenched his jaw. He couldn't deal with this, not with Morgana. "All magic is evil," he reiterated, turning his back to her and gazing once again out of the window. He swallowed something bitterly unpleasant. "No matter who wields it."

Then he felt it: Morgana thrusting herself at him, all fists and nails and sobs of anguish, screaming obscenities and curses. "I hate you Arthur, how could you be so... so disgusting and blind... and _cruel_?" Arthur didn't remember spinning around nor how he managed to grab and hold Morgana's flailing fists, but he did remember, and suspects he always will, the way Morgana slumped against him, head dropped and body racked with sobs. Usually she had so much composure, but now, now Morgana was just the broken little girl she had always tried to subdue and hide behind an independent exterior. And Arthur couldn't bear to watch someone he had secretly admired for their inner strength break down so completely.

He had called for the guards then, and requested that they returned her to her room. During breakfast, Uther had commanded that she be kept there, not because witnessing the execution of the sorcerer would distress her but because she would only be a horrific nuisance to the proceedings.

And that brings them to this present moment. The sun continues to smile naively, oblivious to that fact that it, along with the hordes of townspeople, is to play audience to the theatrics of Uther's merciless loathing. The crowds, most of whom has had some kind of contact with the warlock, look upon the stake with dreaded horror and disbelief. It is something Arthur can relate to; who could've guessed that innocent, bumbling Merlin was really a powerful enemy under a very clever and well manipulated disguise? A part of Arthur, a small insignificant part, laughs at the thought of Merlin being intelligent to pull off something as huge and complex as this mass manipulation, but he silences it hastily. Doubt is a weakness.

The drums rumble in sombre rhythm to the left, and Arthur resists the urge to crane his neck to catch sight of Merlin as he is, Arthur worriedly – rather stupidly, he thinks – assumes, dragged along by the heavyset guards. But he is wrong in that assumption, for, when Merlin does come into view, the guards are loosely holding onto a skinny arm each, reluctant to mottle the pale skin with bruises, despite the knowledge that bruises are most inconsequential.

Merlin ambles along and Arthur feels a small swelling of pride in that fact he is facing death with a certain dignity. Arthur has bore witness to so many witches and warlocks heading to the execution block or the stake, most of whom were either hysterical with terror, sobbing and screaming for mercy – pleas that fell of hate-deafened ears – or struggling desperately against the guards, roaring obscenities to the sky. But Merlin does none of this; he simply walks up to his death and shakes it kindly by the hand.

He is escorted up the wooden steps and quietly stands where he is told, tripping over a bale of hay and grasping onto wooden pole for support. What a twisted irony, that Merlin should snatch safety from the thing that will secure his death. Arthur watches as Merlin's hands are tied and more dried hay is added to his feet.

Hunith lets out a wail that cuts through the gossip and chatter of the townsfolk and Gwen rubs a hand up and down her arm. Arthur keeps his eyes on Merlin however, noticing the wince of pain and the flicker of remorse that flashes in his eyes as the sound continues, a nightmarish lullaby of agony.

Then Uther steps forward. The crowds silence and turn to face him, expressions varying from shock to hatred to disbelief.

"Warlock, you have been accused and found guilty of practicing sorcery with Camelot's walls. Do you deny it?"

Merlin turns his head to the side, to where Gaius, Gwen and his mother watch him through tear-blurred eyes. And he smiles a small half smile that whispers untold regrets and secret goodbyes.

"I'm waiting warlock..."

Merlin's eyes collide with Uther's, and Arthurs little swelling of pride grows when he sees that even now, Merlin hasn't lost his impetuous nature. "No." There is a slight tremble in his voice, a natural quiver borne of an innate fear of dying a painful death, but Merlin straightens his back and holds his chin up. Arthur studies that face one last time, feeling something within him break at the sight of those blue eyes welling up with tears of anxiety, regret, fear and sorrow.

"Then you are hereby sentenced to death by fire, and may you serve as an example to others that magic is not tolerated here in my kingdom." Uther then motions to the guards who move forward, torches illuminated with fire. Arthur had missed those being lighted, his attention so utterly consumed by the pale, sharp figure tied to the post.

The four guards stepped forward in unison, bending at the waist and touching the flame to the hay. It crackles and pops, smouldering amber, glowing before catching. The thin tendrils of smoke begin to waft in the air, experimentally reaching out towards the sky like a child, hesitant and uncertain. Merlin's jaw clenches as the guards back away, retreating down the wooden steps to dispose of the torches.

Soon those fingers of smoke are joined by their parents, thick bellowed plumes of anguish as the flames grow as air fills their bellies and makes them roar in all-encompassing hunger. Merlin starts to cough from where he bound, his eyes squinting against the heat. He splutters, gagging on the thickness of the smoke. He refuses to scream, and yet Arthur can tell that between coughs, Merlin's facade of bravery has cracked and whimpers are spilling uncontrollably from those lips.

Arthur can't help but wish that the smoke poisons Merlin before the flames feast on his flesh.

The stench of the flames makes Arthur lightheaded, yet he forces himself to watch. It doesn't take long until Merlin is all but consumed by fire and smoke, his eyes hazy and breathing laboured and shallow. His head lolls to the side and forward, his knees sag and he slumps against his binds. Arthur cannot stop himself from inching closer, and, as if sensing his gaze, Merlin for the first time that morning and the last time of his life, forces his eyes to focus upwards, meeting Arthur's gaze before his body slumps forward and the ever-hungry fire destroys him.

Arthur had expected the flames to burn an ugly black, but instead they just burn beautiful dancing amber.


	2. Chapter One: No Bravery

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricists. _

_**Notes: **__right, well this is the last of the completed chapters already. I know, I know. I'm sorry. But I am working relentlessly to please you all now – part three should be up in within the next hour or so __. I think that here [as well as the end] I shall thank you all for reading, commenting and just, you know, taking notice of this fic. Really. It makes my day xD_

_**ANY ONE NEW READING THIS, PLEASE DO NOT GO BEYOND THIS CHAPTER **____** THIS STORY IS IN THE PROCESS OF BEING REWRITTEN AND THIS IS AS FAR AS I HAVE GOTTEN ON THE NEW CHAPTERS **____** THANK YOU.**_

_**Media:**__ TV series obviously._

_**Spoilers: **__Quite a few from both seasons. _

_**Characters:**__Merlin and Arthur Pendragon._

**Chapter One: No bravery**

"_The smell of death in the air, a woman weeping in despair" – __No Bravery, James Blunt _

The night has never seemed so long before. Questions, resounding, demanding, torture him. Questions he cannot answer. Will not answer. Why answer such questions? Answers cannot help him now. His repentance would be unwelcomed. His plea for forgiveness denied. And he does not blame whatever higher powers haunt him with the phantom, untouchable presence. He deserves this slow punishment.

So Arthur does not sleep. No, he sits instead on the ledge of his window, peering out of the glass to the spot in the centre of the square. It was void now of the deadly structure that engulfed an old friend in the flames. Void like his eyes. Like his heart.

Arthur knows he deserves this pain, this distant ache that lingers like the plague, distilling his composure and infecting his decisions – but he does not understand. He does not understand _why_ it aches so much. Why should he regret serving king and country, ridding the world of one more heathen creature?

Only – only Merlin hadn't been a heathen creature, had he? He had been bumbling. He had been stupid. An idiot. Incapable. Weak. He had a fools' courage. A fools' smile. A fools' humour. He had no respect. No intelligence. No lessons.

But he had not been a heathen.

_You have been, though... _

The prince swallows, closing his eyes slowly against the thought. But he can't escape. You can escape enemies, foes and monsters. But only if they are physical. You can't deny the nightmares, the ghosts or your own self-loathing. When you _are_ the monster, there is no hiding.

Why had he done it? Why had he condemned the closest thing to a true friend to die? Had it been pride? Rage? What? What had compelled him to destroy the one person who saw Arthur for Arthur and not as a crown?

The prince exhaled shakily. Pride. Rage. Betrayal. These emotions were worthless. Pointless. Let him be numb, numb as the night and the moon that shines on with a silvery light. Regret is painful. Blankness is blissful. Let him be blank.

Arthur looks to the moon from his window, gazing into her sharp expression of dismay, eyes wide and mouth gaping. He loses himself in the sight, in the purity of the silver light that graces the earth and himself. But a small part of him taunts, whispers cruel and demanding things in his ear. _You'll never be clean Arthur_, it mocks. _Look at your hands; look at the pretty red blood that stains your fingers._

His fingers unfurl from where they had been clenched in his lap and Arthur is almost scared to look. He shakes his head. Whatever you find, you deserve, the prince thinks. His eyes ease down onto his palm and he scrambles away from window, staring at his palms. Slick, black moisture stains them.

And Arthur wants to be sick, can taste the acidic bile rising in his throat. His hands are shaking – how weak. How pathetic. He fists his fingers, knowing that he is imagining the smeared redness painted across his palms, but unable to block out the feeling of stickiness. He presses his fists into his chest – his pride sneers at him in disgust, but pride is ever overruled by the insanity of guilt.

_Murderer..._

Yes. Yes. He couldn't deny it. Many times he had felt blood smear his palms, blood of fallen comrades and ruined foes. He has taken a twisted kind of pleasure and pride in death. He has witnessed it in many forms; in curses, in passion and in hate. He has seen those who plead for mercy and have smirked at their weakness. He has seen those who face death with a grin and shaken his head at their insanity. Death is as intimate and familiar as a lover to the prince, his rushed and hurried brushes but cold, expectant kisses – he has been embraced by those cool arms but never laid to rest. Not yet, Death seeks not him for many a year yet.

Death had sought only Merlin – had clasped him with skeletal fingers and dragged him into the barbaric landscapes of whatever lay beyond.

Arthur staggers towards the window once more, peering at his hands, ignoring the slight tremble of his palms. They are clean once more, a dull, natural peach. No blood, no stains of death and murder and betrayal linger and Arthur can almost sob in relief.

_It's not just Merlin though, is it Arthur? He is just one in a long chain of coffins on your conscience, isn't he? How many have you slain? How many souls will greet you with evil eyes and eviller intent when you pass over? Do you know, or have you lost count?_

Arthur presses his back against the stone wall, touching the heels of his palms into his forehead. He needs to get a grip. He needs to lose this guilt, this remorse for a past he cannot rectify. Merlin is dead. And Arthur as good as lit the pyre. But he needs to forget – to move on. Merlin, he needs to believe, was nothing. Just a servant. Just a boy. Just nothing. Nothing important, nothing Arthur had cherished or trusted, and maybe even respected.

No. Doubt is a weakness. He cannot go against his teachings or his father. He needs to distance himself from this. Merlin was a sorcerer. Sorcerers are evil. They are darkness incarnate, sinful and tricky. They use magic to cloud the mind and judgments of others, they use curses to punish and hexes to befuddle and swindle.

They are evil.

Merlin must've been evil.

_You are evil. _

Arthur doesn't disagree.

The sun rises and with it Arthur's princely persona. He sets his jaw and exhales heavily. A new day. He had slept fitfully, dreaming of stifling fires and choking smoke, of oceanic blue eyes dulling into empty black orbs. But the sun, jovial and bright, grants him clemency, washing away the madness of the evening before, smudging away the mistakes of days past, with a mellow golden light.

His forehead is beaded with the sweat from his unpleasant dreams – he refuses to call them nightmares, they are just mental illusions and nothing a knight, much less a prince, ought to fear – and his back damp with the same. The light shirt he had worn to bed sticks to his skin unpleasantly. He feels distinctly filthy as he kicks of the heavy sheets adorning his bed. He strips the offending item of clothing off, dumping it on the table for his new, competent manservant to take care of. The warm air caresses his skin fondly, soothingly after such a twisted and suffocating night. Arthur rolls his shoulders back, straightens his frame and plasters a schooled expression his face. He isn't sure when he become so adept at hiding his innermost thoughts and feeling behind a princely facade, but he is ever grateful for it.

He needs this mask. It saves him, saves him from disappointing his father, his kingdom, his friends. It allows him reprieve and gives him the strength to be the prince everyone – that his father – wants him to be.

Even if it means indirectly murdering someone he cared about.

He shakes his head to clear the thought. No. He cannot think like that. To think like that would mean being treacherous. And he will not betray his king by becoming a sympathiser. He should be angered still, he should be in a rage that he had been tricked, been lied to. There should be some semblance of gratification that a potential threat had been dealt with. Camelot was safe.

That should be all that he cares about.

So why, when there is a knock on the door, does Arthur find himself wishing it to be _that_ person? Why does he wish that the door would just be kicked open and have _that_ person blunder into the room in all his thoughtless and childishly awkward glory? Why does it ache his heart that when, after granting the knocker permission to enter, it _isn't _that person wondering in through the door?

Arthur looks away from his new manservant – a young boy. That was all Arthur could've told you, if you asked. The boy was young. The boy was competent. The boy was... boring. That was all. That was all Arthur had bothered to notice. His name, his personality... all that humanising rubbish means little to him. Knowing someone, really knowing them, only leads to attachment and vulnerability. Arthur decided after the boy had been appointed that he did want to run the risk of having the same situation.

"Your breakfast, sire," the boy intones, his voice is quiet and softly spoken. He leaves the tray on the table before moving about the room to tidy the disarray of the prince's bed. Sneaky, side long glances from the nameless servant boy puts the prince under his silent scrutiny. The prince is as good-looking as they say, and although he has both witnessed and heard of his chivalry and good nature, none of it comes shining through at this moment. He all but ignores the boy as he potters about the room.

"Do you wish me to help you dress, sire?"

Arthur grits his teeth at the suffocating politeness and mindfulness, Merlin would never – he stops the thought, leaving it uncompleted in the dust of his memory. "No. My armour needs to be cleaned and treated and tell the stable boy to prepare my mare for riding." The servant takes that for the dismissal it is and leaves hastily, leaving Arthur to his own troublesome thoughts once more.

The food sits untouched and ignored. And there it would remain, slowly congealing, until someone came to collect the dinnerware. There is no desire for food as the Prince roughly pulls a linen shirt over his head. He should eat, that he knows. But he also knows the hollow feeling in his stomach will not be cured by gluttony of any kind. Too force himself to eat would only result in him choking and sputtering in a most humiliating manner.

The prince won't stand for that. How he acted in the dead of night was hidden, how he acts in the day is not. He will not appear weak to his subjects. He will not reveal the perpetual queasy feeling ailing him. He is a prince, and a prince must fulfil his duty no matter what may be going on in his head. He finishes changing, forcibly thinking of anything unrelated to the castle and its inhabitants.

Arthur's room, whilst being an epitome of wealth and riches, is oddly oppressive. Too much time has been spent here since the traitor was executed and he has grown sick of the cold stone walls, the deep rustic reds and the rich mahogany. He needs fresh air, not the deadened breeze rarely snaking in through his window. He needs to feel the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of the hunt – blessed distraction. And you never know, without that blundering, heavy-footed idiot, he might even get the chance to catch more than a singular boar. Maybe he will return to the old glory days, when he would ride home from a hunt with enough game to last the next three winters.

Maybe.

He sighs. They say misery loves its company, but the prince is too prideful to even think about the possibility of a group hunt, where people may notice he isn't quite on his game. He knows he can't stretch this need for solitude much longer; he had cancelled many training lessons with his knights, and the hunt he had gone on after the – after that event left him feeling bitter and empty. The hunt had been a joke, an obscene play where his knights were the falsely jovial actors trying to impress upon him that what he had done was not disgusting.

Arthur does not want that situation again. So, ignoring his logic telling him that he cannot brood forever and that the king will have something to say if he cancels yet another training session, Arthur marches from his room. The door shuts behind him with a rough snap.

He makes his way through the castle easily. The sombre cloak has since lifted a little, and the maids and workmen walk about now with more smiles and laughter then a few days before. And yet, although they show him utmost courtesy and respect, Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that it is just skin deep. The warlock had been well liked throughout the serving class, he always had a smile and a cheered demeanour... but all that was gone. For the greater good. Yes. Arthur wishes he could stop thinking.

The sun is still warm, glowing a stunning yellow and reflecting of cobbled streets. The prince squints into the bright light, glancing around the courtyard. A few of his knights are gathered in the corner talking, but the prince ignores them. Their company is loud, even the older ones, the knights Arthur has known for years will attempt to cover over any displeasure with brawling behaviour. Arthur doesn't want that.

He moves towards the stables.

"My lord." The prince pauses, turning to look upon Sir Kay. He is a young knight, a hatchling really, just grasping the many areas in which a knight must surpass. But he is kind, a little naive perhaps, but a good lad. Arthur raises an eyebrow in question but doesn't speak.

The younger knight smiles hesitantly, fidgeting a little as if nervous to be around the prince. "It is a pleasure to see you out, that's all. The others and I were wondering if you'd... get round to, say a hunt or something. To... clear your head perhaps...?"

Arthur's eyes cool as he gazes upon Sir Kay. And the knight shrinks under his gaze, chewing his lip and averting his eyes. "My head is clear enough thank you," he says stiffly, coldly.

"My Lord, I –."

"Good bye Kay. Practise resumes tomorrow." And with that the prince turns on his heel, leaving a flustering Sir Kay a more than a little worried about practise tomorrow. The stable boy, having witnessed the exchange, smartly keeps out of the princes' way.

And then the prince is gone, disappeared in the noise of freshly shoed hooves slamming into the cobbled streets. He passes though the lower streets. Merchants and store owners yell in the light of the street, proclaiming their wares to be the most worthy of your gold. Horses snuffle and neigh, chickens batter their wings against the wooden cages they are held in. Woman gossip and giggle, swooning over dresses and fabric or nosing through the vegetable stalls to get the best their petty coin can buy. Men boast and swagger, they saunter over to the groups of females, eyes ogling below the necklines as they are laughed out of the circle of friends. Children dart in and out of the stalls, chasing, laughing, mocking. Prince Arthur ignores this, he moves swiftly through the lanes. His horse only slows when he comes to the more condensed area, but he doesn't linger.

He knows the looks that follow him but he ignores them. Soon he is out of the lower streets and into the outlands, the wilderness still controlled by his fathers' reign. He pulls Alannah to a stop, shifting in the saddle. Light blue eyes survey the area before an expensive boot digs into the horses' flank, urging the horse on.

The trees are majestic as kings, towering over him disapprovingly, their court of leaves whispering secrets to each other as Alannah gallops down the well trod path of battered grass and spindles. Rays of sunlight thread through the leaves and the wild flowers and weeds wave in a gentle summers' breeze, Arthur tugs gently on the reigns once again. Alannah slows to a trot before coming to a slow walk. Arthur looks around him. He isn't quite sure where he is going, but there is the faintest sense of recognition as he slides from the saddle and leads his mare off the path and into the density of the woods. The shadows overhead shifts and the leaves rustle. Twigs snap beneath his boots and moist soil gives way. He pushes grabby branches from his path, ducking low when needed and stepping over fallen logs.

He comes to a small clearing at the edge of the forest and blinks a bit. He knows this place somehow, someway.

_Flashes, distant, indecipherable except for a feeling of intense love, passionate love and the need to impress someone else. Who? Glimpses of full cherry lips, blue eyes and wavy mousy hair._

Arthur shakes his head and the mystifying memory is gone. He strokes down the nose of Alannah, and releases her reins. He trusts she will not venture far.

Arthur shakes off the familiar feeling. The heat of the sun is intense in this spot and Arthur is faintly glad that he left his cloak and armour – not wise, he thinks, but favourable. His hands go to his waist and he unbuckles the strap that holds sheath and sword and discards it on the ground. Better safe than sorry, he muses. But he doubts he will have need of the sword. Bandits work best in the centre of the forest, along the beaten path and other criminals will travel by night – much safer.

He drops to the spongy grass and lies back, closing his eyes. Some time to himself, that is all he needs – all he wants. Time away from the pressures of being Crown Prince and the stuffiness of his room. Time away from the ghost that haunts every corner despite his resolution to not be regretful about the death of the sorcerer.

_Are those warm lips he feels pressed against his own? Are those palms pressed against his chest? Is that the sensation of being pushed and falling? Is that the sensation of sinking? Arthur cannot be sure. These memories aren't his own, they cannot be his own. They are confused, melding images that war against each other. _

A crack of a twig snapping under foot makes Arthur's eyes spring open. His ears prick. He cannot hear Alannah shuffling, or her loud breaths huffing through the silence. There is however the sound of a fabric gliding over a rough, grassy area. Arthur springs to his feet, grabbing his sheathed sword on the way.

He faces what he thinks is a female, although it is hard to tell just what figure lies beneath that swamping white clock. He drags his sword from the leather sheath and throws it to the floor. He adopts a wide footed stance, his sword held defensively. The woman – if that is what it is – doesn't move. The large hood of the cloak obscures her face in darkness, but when she looks up, thin pink lips and a curved chin is all he can see.

Yes. Female.

"Put down that glorified toothpick, Pendragon. I mean you no harm." The voice is fluid and calm, musical and light. Arthur sizes the woman up. She is probably shorter than he, but at the distance he can't tell. She has a powerful aura, but not unfriendly. The cloak she wears conceals her body and her clothes – he cannot tell if she be of noble birth or not. Her hands are hidden by long sweeping sleeves that end about where her ankle should be so he cannot see if she is married. It is, all in all a ridiculous cloak for every day casual wear. But then, he assumes, sneaking up on the crown prince is not an everyday event.

Arthur distrusts any foe that has a perchance for masks and obscurity.

"How do I know that?" he asks instead, deeming that keeping the conversation going would be best. She seems willing to talk – and a talkative possible-enemy is always best.

"I come to make a deal with you, young prince," she explains, head tilting to the side. "I come with an opportunity for repentance."


	3. Chapter Two: Sick Little Games

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricist. _

_**Notes: **__Right, part three __ I'm getting there lol. Just gotta rewrite one more chapter then it's back to doin git just as it comes lol. Tell em what you think of this version please._

_**Media:**__ TV series obviously. _

_**Spoilers: **__Quite a few from both seasons. _

_Characters: __**Merlin and Arthur Pendragon.**_

**Chapter Two: Sick Little Games**

"_They're finding me out, I'm having my doubts, I'm losing the best of me. Dressed up as myself to live in the shadow of who I am supposed to be." – __Sick Little Games, All Time Low_

Arthur stares at the woman in disbelief. His sword lowers a little in surprise. "You _what_?"

"You have made many mistakes, young Pendragon," she answers and the prince feels that gaze steady on him. "But you are just that – a princeling. You have yet to fully mature as a monarch. I come with an offer to help you eradicate your past... mistakes."

"I'm not interest in whatever _repentance_ –" he spits the as if it were bitter on the tongue – "you have to offer. I have nothing to repent. I have done no wrong."

There is a tinkling laugh. "Now, now Arthur, we both know that is a lie." Her head tilts beneath the fabric shielding her. "What have you to lose by listening to me? Just time, and, if you listen, you can easily get that back." He knows she is smiling by the way she speaks. He eyes her up and down. The cloak swamps her figure, concealing any weapon she have on her person, but he is the greatest swordsman around – revered by even some of the most seasoned knights.

"Speak then," he says, straightening from his defensive posture and lowering his sword enough to no longer be offensive, but high enough that it may come into play quickly and efficiently should he need it.

"I can help you," she says simply. "I can call upon the forces of nature and bend them to my will to grant you a second chance. I can take you back to any point in time – In your personal timeline at least – and allow you a day in your past to correct a past mistake."

The sword is up again on the offensive. A low growl tumbles from Arthur's throat. "You're a sorcerer." It's a hiss, venomous and dark.

Such an ugly word, my prince. An ugly word you use to easily." There is a graceful shrug of the shoulders. "I prefer the word 'gifted.' Your young friend Emrys – sorry, _Merlin_ – he was gifted, gifted most generously."

Arthur laughed hollowly. "You _would_ defend him – birds of a feather and all that."

"He done nought but protect you and your land, prince," the woman answers a little sharply. "You should not condemn his memory so."

The prince finds himself lowering his gaze guiltily without fully understanding why.

"I wish you no harm, young Pendragon," she continues silkily, earnestly. "Just a chance to redeem yourself, to take back the one thing that you regret the most."

"...One thing?" Arthur swallows dryly. "No catches?"

"None, my prince. Just a hope that you may remember such an offer when your time to rule this kingdom comes."

"I..."

"No need to rush things," the clocked female ushers with what sounds like a smile. "I know that the Kings' will is a strong one and his beliefs in only the evil in magic more so. Call for me when you decide, young prince." She retreats in a ripple of white silk, leaving a dumbfounded prince with a slack jaw and confused eyes, holding his sword in a foolishly limp grip.

/\/\

Looking back over the day before, it seems like quite an inconsequential meeting. How could topics of such treachery and gravity be spoken of in just a few minutes? How could Arthur's world be rocked and traitorous ideas be implanted in his imagination occur within mere minutes? But then, isn't that what father always said was so dangerous about magic? Those heathen creatures can enrapture you within seconds if you let them, it's how they worked.

So why doesn't the crown prince feel repulsed. He knows magic is dastardly and wrong, he knows that it is the magic of her witch's word weaselling into his mind to make him think such thoughts, so why doesn't he battle to dispel the thoughts, the images of having Merlin back along with them with his goofy smile and uniqueness.

Why does he desire that _sorcerer_ back so much in the first place?

It's killing him, slowly and painfully. Tormenting him. He knows he should just ignore the offer, what is done is done. Merlin is gone, punished as only his kind can be. Gone. Dead. Why does that hurt to think about? He inhales a shuddering breath and straightens out his shoulders, eyeing his knight's critically. He must focus on the present, he tells himself. The present. Not the unchangeable past.

The _changeable_ past.

The prince shakes his head and swallows. His men, his knights are littered around, in small groups, eyes of pity and concern addressing each other as they whisper their fears for their prince. He knows. Arthur can smell it on them and it sickens him. Their conversations die as he approaches, the younger knights slightly flinch with guilty coconscious's.

"I hope you have all satisfied your gossiping?" Arthur calls out icily. "Anyone would think this was a meeting of maids or married crones not Camelot's best knights." Those blue eyes are hard and cold; the warmth that Merlin – the name is whispered among his men when his back is turned – inspired had died with him, burnt in the amber flames as surely as Merlins' flesh. The younger knights shift uncomfortably, but the older ones just stare their prince down. They refuse to regret their concern for their prince.

Their distracted, cold prince.

Arthur glares at the older knights, hating them for emotion reflected in their eyes. He doesn't want their concern or their pity. He doesn't want their understanding or help. He doesn't want _them, _they can do nothing. The only one that can is gone.

Arthur clears his throat. "Well let's continue where we left off, shall we?" The knights nod, pairing off and separating themselves. The silence of the morning is broken by the metallic clang of metal against metal, scraping and slicing thin air. Arthur observes his men forcefully, focusing on them and them only.

"Gawain, you're leaving yourself wide open for a side attack, defend yourself more."

"_I come with an opportunity for repentance." _Yes. The one thing he craves, somewhere deep and dark within his soul. He won't consciously acknowledge it, but the need is there. He needs to be forgiven by someone, anyone – Morgana or Guinevere or Gaius. He needs _someone_ to tell him it was the right thing to do, someone who knew Merlin, not a distant figure like his father.

But from his knowledge, repentance never does come so cheap.

"_Your young friend Merlin, he was gifted, gifted most generously." _Arthur sneers – it's a little of, but mocking nonetheless. His 'young friend' was no more than a liar and cheat. Merlin had been no loyal friend of his, just a filthy sorcerer. His intentions were undoubtedly bad, and hadn't he always had a shifty look about him, like he had something to hide?

Well, Arthur chokes back a bitter chuckle. He certainly did.

"Kay, if you fought like that with bandits, even the most slow witted, you would be dead by now. Keep your head in the game, boy, or lose it to an enemy blade." He moves around his men, eyeing their footwork, swordsmanship. He observes their technique, their flaws and their improvements. They are forever improving.

"_I have done no wrong."_

"_Now, now Arthur, we both know that is a lie."_

Is that true? Has he really done so much wrong? Arthur knows he has made bad choices, he has seen and allowed things he wished he could stop, like Gwen's father, or when Gaius had been accused of sorcery and obviously severely beaten. He regrets those, wishes he could take them back, stop his father or aid their escapes. He regrets having to take those ridiculous taxes from the people, although the people were given the excess back – he still feels the remorse of having to rob them blind in the name of his king and, at the time, wife. He regrets some of his more bullying ways, how his arrogance and swagger comes out at the most inappropriate times and often ends up hurting someone with his cruel tongue. He'll admit it. He is human, he does bad things. But does he regret anything so much that he would risk the threat of magic to correct it?

He doubts it.

"Here, Galahad partner with me." Arthur moves over to the knight. He is a taller man, a little older then Arthur, but good looking. A chiselled chin and structured jaw, a long, unbroken noble nose and grinning blue eyes.

"Sire?"

"Some of you are still focusing too much on the attack, and not as much on the defence." Arthur stares at Galahad with a smile. "Attack me, as you would any other opponent." The man shrugs, raising his sword and bringing it down in a slicing motion, to which Arthur easily parries, moving elegantly on his feet, quickly taking up the chance to hit the flat of his blade against Galahads' exposed side. Had that been the edge, Galahad would've suffered, at the very least, severe blood loss.

_"Just a chance to redeem yourself, to take back the one thing that you regret the most." _Arthur grits his teeth, focusing on the sword Galahad his wielding with dexterity. Stop it, he screams. Stop thinking about it. Arthur spins, bringing his sword up to block an attack on his torso. He pushes the defence harder, the force causing the knight to stagger. The edges of the blades screech as they run along the lengths of each other.

It is nothing but some folly, Arthur argues with himself. Besides, even if you did follow up on this, you have no idea how to call the witch to make it happen. So drop it. Arthur answering attack is somewhat violent, aggressive. Galahads' eyes widen at the sudden shift in the battle and he has to brace himself against a blow that knocks him to the side and breathless.

"_He did nought but protect you and your land, prince." _Arthur stares at the knight he floored. His chest is heaving. He put undue force into that show. He swallows.

"Practise your defensive skills," he barks. "You are no good to me dead." Turning away, Arthur thrusts his sword into the arms of his new manservant who ventured down sometime during practise. Arthur hadn't even noticed. If that had been Merlin –

"_He did nought but protect you and your land, prince." _Lies. All lies. They were lies set to deceive him, to make him feel guilt. Was this what it was all about? Had Merlin been in cahoots with this mysterious woman and now she was trying to trick him into bringing him back somehow?

"_Protect you..."_ Merlin, he had to admit, had been brave. It had been a fool's bravery; no doubt an act to gain Arthur's respect, but the prince can't help but feel a twinge of pride. He rubs a hand down his face, feeling the rough stubble with a grimace. If Merlin sought to protect him it was only so he could kill the prince himself. That had to be it. Sorcerers cared for little. Why was he even trying to convince himself? God, his head hurt.

"_Well, I know you. And you're a great warrior. One day you'll be a great King."_ Despite himself a small smile is brought his lips. A lie that tastes so sweet. Had Merlin meant any of it? A small, silent part of Arthur hopes that he did because he had valued Merlin's opinion, valued it as you would any friend. Valued him.

"_Promise me this, if you get another servant, don't get a bootlicker." _Arthur wanders towards the castle. Bootlicker? If Arthur is brutally honest, he couldn't even tell you what colour hair his new servant has. He knows little of the boy, just that he does his duties quietly and without the commotion Merlin used to create. The same small part of him mentioned before whispers that perhaps the prince might just miss the ungodly noise of Merlin tripping over with an armful of armour, or throwing a wayward boot into the corner of the room and hoping Arthur wouldn't notice. But it was a small part, a very small part. The part that controlled his tear ducts apparently, Arthur thought as his felt his eyes burn.

Arthur blinks, inhaling heavily and exhaling, glancing around the courtyard to see if anyone has noticed. He runs a hand through his hair and ascends the steps. Whereas he noticed everything about Merlin, Arthur couldn't even tell you the colour of the new servants' eyes.

"_I'm happy to be your servant, till the day I die."_ Arthur chokes back what seems, rather alarmingly, to be a sob. He hasn't shed a tear for the sorcerer; a dead man deserves no tears, much less a dead sorcerer. And yet here he is, marching at a quickened pace through the palace, biting back a coughing sob and battling against threatening tears.

The small part of him rejoices as he slams into his room, thrusting the heel of his palms to his eyes. His is breathing slowly, controlling every motion that may bring on the onslaught of unwanted sorrow. He swallows, marching over the window and gazing down at the plaza. And he frowns.

Standing in the middle, surprisingly ignored by all others, is none other than the cloaked female, hood upturned as if she is staring right at him. Then she turns away and Arthur gets the feeling that she is beckoning him to follow.

"_I'm happy to be your servant, till the day I die." _Before Arthur can consciously realise what he is doing, he is marching out of his room and flying out towards the courtyard. His mind, previously lost in thoughts he has repressed, is only just awakening. He catches sight of pure white fabric disappearing around a corner.

Are his regrets great enough to risk the threat of magic to correct them?

"_You're a prat. And a royal one."_

Just maybe.


	4. Chapter Three: One Day Son

**Chapter Three: One Day Son**

"_One day son this will all be yours, I'm sorry for this mess."– One Day Son, Fightstar_

Arthur will not mention just how nervous he is. He follows the White Lady through the forest with a heavy, anticipating heart. It beats annoyingly fast, nervous and excited and fearful all at the same time – so conflicting and harsh and pulsing through is veins. The forest thrums with a life and vibrancy Arthur has never fully realised before; around him the trees whisper, murmuring in a light breeze. These trees, they hold the memories of the ages – thoughts of past kings and nobles hunting with their dogs and horses, peasants ambling and bandits mocking.

Is Merlin among them as well; scowls of disapproving, legs clumsy and breathing far too loud for someone in a hunting party. But why, a small voice in the back of his head tells him, why do you care if Merlin is in the memories of the trees, for you know he is safe in your memories for eternity.

Arthur growls, and the White Lady turns to look at him. He shakes his head, refusing to voice that he was in fact growling at himself. Admittance is not the first step towards recovery – it's the first step towards insanity.

Instead he turns his thoughts towards less dangerous topics. He thinks of a hunting party he should put together, of training sessions and getting a vial of medicine from Gaius to cure his headache. He doesn't think of how Morgana has taken to not just ignoring him, but pretending he doesn't exist, nor how Guinevere no longer spares him a small smile. He ignores how each and every corner of not just the castle but Camelot itself is painted with the ghost of the dead sorcerer.

The market place._ "I could take you apart with one blow."_

"_I could take you apart with less than that." _How true those words had been. Arthur had taken one look at the scrawny, dark haired boy and laughed at the concept. He should've listened.

The training ground. _"Is it over?"_

"_That was just a warm-up. How's your mace work coming along?"_ he had been blindingly pathetic. One a battlefield he would've been dead in two seconds. He lasted longer than most, Arthur admitted, but he was clumsy and had two left feet and no hand-eye coordination to speak of.

"_Do you hear a clanging?"_

"When you can't get someone out of your head, it means you miss them." Arthur halts, gazing t the White Lady.

"I do not miss him. He was a sorcerer, he got what he deserved." He pushes his chin out a bit, but his eyes focus just past her head.

She hums, almost sounding amused. "Tell me that again, prince, when you actually mean it." She looks around herself. "Come, we are almost there." They travel the rest of the way in silence.

The woman finally stops in the clearing they had met in before. She glances over her shoulder, the fabric of her cloak shimmering in the sunlight of the early afternoon. Arthur takes that as an invitation to step closer, and he moves accordingly. "Do you know the significance of this place, young prince?"

Arthur scans the area and shrugs. "No. What does it matter?" He can almost feel the burn from the answering scowl. His mind, however disagrees, conjuring those flashing, distorted pictures that mock him whenever he comes here – feelings of floating, and phantom arms and the faint nervousness of a past danger. He suppresses a shiver. It is best to act as the arrogant prince here, show no weakness. It is best. Less painful.

"You could've died here, young prince. Your life could've ended amidst malicious magic and indifferent waters." She pauses, turning to regard the princes' bemused look. "But you were saved by the boy you condemned." She speaks so matter-of-factly.

Arthur chuckles mirthlessly. His heart beats harshly in his chest. Please, he thinks, please don't say things like that. "I think I would remember such an encounter, witch," he answers cockily. "I am not one to forget things so lightly."

"And yet you forgot a deep friendship in the blink of an eye," she snaps. Arthur swallows, averting his gaze for but an instant, his chin held high, before his gaze slides back to the shadow of her hidden face. He cannot see the eyes that study him so intensely, but he can feel the scorching laceration they leave upon his blemished soul. "Or should I say, in a whisper of an ill-used and ugly word." Her words are like daggers being thrust deeply into the princes' side and twisted with excruciating slowness.

Then the atmosphere, a pulsing thing buzzing angrily stills into the serene, natural quietness of the forest once more. "I am not here to argue with you, Kingling. I am here to explain to you the rules and the guidelines of my gift. But first, I want you to cast your mind back to the time you were acquainted with a pretty young thing named Sophia."

The princes' eyes flashed darkly, like lightening in a storm. "What of it?" He grinds his words out through gritted teeth. Arthur, as most proud people, does not like to be reminded of times in which they lapsed in perfect judgement.

"She was a Sidhe – one of the Fair Folk. She enchanted you, wished to sacrifice you to their elders. The raven Sorcerer, Emrys – or Merlin as he is known to you and himself – saved you. He used his own power, a power borne of nature, not borrowed or learned gifts like mine, and saved you from drowning under enchantment." She moves closer to the prince, who is gazing in disbelief at the white-clad female. "By using that which you distaste, he saved your life and acted on genuine loyalty to his future king, and better yet, his friend."

Illuminations, images ignited by emotive words, flash and spark in his brain. Arthur feels the distinct coldness of the water, of sinking and the blissful quietness of being only vaguely aware. It's all very dreamlike in quality. He is weightless as a feather in an updraft. Sophia's face, once so close, close enough to kiss as his heart so very much yearned to do, smirks with a darkness unbecoming of her beauty.

His eyes flick up in astonishment.

There is now noise, a bumbling crashing of water being splashed, waded through most desperately. There is his name being called by an urgent, recognisable voice. Then there is nothing, a moment of stillness, before the unholy racket starts up once more. Then there are arms, fragile, thin things with no muscle or weight to them and yet strength enough to tug a limp and lifeless body from the clutches of a cruel lake.

"You lie..." Arthur whispers hoarsely and yet he knows it is not. Every time he comes here he is plagued by the same images. "That can't... Merlin wouldn't... Magic is evil," he ends desperately. The old mantra tastes bitter on his tongue.

"Magic is as evil or as saintly as the person who wields it. It is the same with a sword, Prince. Is a sword, in and of itself evil? No, it has no nature to speak of. It is how the knight to claims it, who makes it evil or just." Arthur blinks. In his head, Merlin's anxious cries are echoing, resounding and pounding and rattling around his head.

"Just explain yourself, woman. Then leave me." His hates how choked his voice is. How desperate. He hates how his heart is beating, thudding against his chest like a war drum.

Arthur can feel the smile on her lips. "How stubborn you are, Prince. It will serve you well in times to come, as well as be a thorn in your Councils' side." There is a moment's pause. "Very well, the rules are simple. You have three days as of now to think of a time and place to which you wish to go. One the third day, at sunset you are to met me here if you haven't beforehand. Whilst at your chosen time, your past body will be suspended in time, as your present body will be here. Do you follow so far?"

Arthurs' nod is small and controlled. His eyes are closed as if the loss of his sight would make his treason disappear into a memory. Beneath those lids, they are rage a storm of conflicting emotion.

"Good. Now," she continues. "Whatever you may change in the past will alter the present here, so you must be prepared for some change when you awaken once more. Apart from the three day rule, there is only two other rules you must follow. Do not exceed twelve hours in the past, else your soul could be severely damaged and your mind touched with a fever of insanity, or you could even be lost forever in Limbo." Once again, Arthur senses, rather than sees the witch's slight smirk. "Only mild side effects. And, lastly, do not make any drastic changes. Do not, as an example, choose to go back to your birth day and save your mother from her fate. Too big a change will leave this future distorted beyond recognition for you. You must understand that some things in time are fixed and cannot be changed, like the death of your mother, whereas others are victims of circumstance and can be changed with no or very little damage." She stares hard at the prince. "Heed that dire warning my prince."

"I understand," he says stiffly, his eyes having flamed at the mention of his departed mother, narrowed with darkness and loss and deep-rooted guilt.

"That is all you need to know. All I ask is one more thing."

Arthur glares into the hood. "What more do you want of me?"

"If things go poorly, do not blame the magic that sent you there," she requests softly. "And please, whatever the outcome of the change you make, if it is bad, do not follow in your fathers' footsteps and perhaps remember the tale I told you, of a certain dark haired sorcerer and a certain gold haired prince."

The woman advances and gently touches Arthurs' cheek with surprisingly warm fingers. "You have three days, my prince. I beg you to choose wisely." The long, lithe fingers leave him a second later and she is disappearing into the brush soundlessly.

Arthur touches his cheek with a frown. The warmth of her skin lingers there, comforting in a strange way.

/\/\

"Arthur, a word before you retire." Arthur glances up at his king, lowering his goblet of wine. Morgana had left the table not to long before, unusually subdued, her brows knotted in confusion. As she left, she had muttered something about Gaius and a sleeping draught, rubbing her forehead with bemusement. Arthur had watched her surreptitiously through dinner, he had heard enough idle nattering of the ladies-in-waiting and maids and Guinevere's worries to know that the kings' ward had been suffering horrific nightmares. A small part of him wished Morgana would confide in him, but they were no longer children – Morgana has become too proud and Arthur too arrogant for them to swap secrets anymore.

Perhaps it was for the best.

"Father." Arthur observes the man who sits at the far end of the table. He is an aged warrior, noble with a heart of stone that has been both a blessing and curse to his reign. Arthur wonders briefly what his father had been like before his mother had left them for whatever paradise lay beyond.

"You seem to have been subdued since the sorcerer was executed – your servant, the mentally deficient one."

"I know of whom you speak, Father," Arthur cuts in a little sharply. Uther's eyes are granite when they fix on him. He notices the slight defiance in the way Arthur holds his head up, chin jutted out slightly. He hears the soft hint of anger at his insult towards the boy Arthur had once held in high regards. The king sighs.

"Son, you are the one and future king. Betrayal will be common to you, and it may hurt, but it will teach you things. You will appreciate the loyalty of those of genuine emotion in your court. You cannot be affected so greatly by this, and neither must you shy away from the punishment." Those eyes refuse to release Arthur's. "I saw you close your eyes at the burning. I saw how you observed the pain of those who had claimed to be close to the sorcerer. You cannot do that; you cannot appear weak in times of punishment. The people must know that you are not faint of heart."

"He was a friend father," Arthur bites out.

"I understand that, but it remains the same. It is even more important for you to look on such punishment when it was someone close. You must close your heart to guilt in such times and show the people that you will not tolerate disloyalty."

Arthur bristles. He stares down at his near empty goblet, twisting the stem with his fingers. "Would you have looked on without a blink if it were Gaius?" he asks softly, dangerously but uncaring of the threatening situation he was putting himself in. "When Gaius confessed to being a sorcerer, and you sentenced him to die, would have looked on without blinking, without guilt or remorse?" Arthur dares to meet his fathers' gaze, and finds his eyes are dark and resolute.

"Yes I would, Arthur, because I am king and my choices are made not for myself but for the good of my kingdom and its people." He gives his son a hard look. "You would do well to remember that when you take the throne."


	5. Chapter Four: I'm Not The One

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricist. _

_**Notes: **__I missed the disclaimer on the other bit so, um, Sorry. __ I'm getting there, I'm getting there. I'm not sure of the updated versions have alerted you or not, but please, I have rewritten all the previous parts... except the prologue I think.. I think I just changed the lyrics on that. Um... anyway, yes, I have rewritten all previous parts, so although they haven't changed that much, you can go back and read over them. UNBETA'D _

_I need to find one... I really do. I'll read through it later, but it is 4:34 AM and I am now officially knackered now that the buzz of writing has died. _

_Thank you for reading and please do tell me what you think/how I could improve _

**Chapter Four: I'm Not The One**

"_You're way too young to be broken, your way too young to fall apart, you're way too young to play these games, but you better start."– I'm Not The One, 3OH!3_

The Crown Prince of Camelot is distracted, anyone with eyes could discern as much. But what interests Morgana is _why_. She knows she should not worry herself over someone to whom friendship and the loyalty that oft comes with evidently means so little but she can't help but feel a twinge of curiosity and yes, worry.

If she and Arthur had been on speaking terms, she would've bullied it out of him by now, exasperated him into caving and spilling his inner most thoughts. But they are not. She can't bring herself to look at him, to witness the deadness in his eyes. Part of it is, indeed, a feeling of intense betrayal – after all Merlin had done for them all – but also a foreign feeling of something akin to fear. Morgana is aware her dreams are not just any old nightmares; she had seen them play out too exactly in real life too many times to be able to convince herself any longer. And it is this that causes this uncomfortable feeling in her stomach.

She loathes herself for it. Morgana is a proud woman, deceptively strong in physical prowess as well as intellect and emotions and this deep rooted, hard-to-bury fear she carries with her sickens her. And yet she finds it difficult to be in the same room as Arthur. What if he were to find out? Would family ties save her from the flames or axe? Uther would not spare her, and the dark, swirling anxiety in the back of her mind whispered that Arthur wouldn't ever.

Silly insecurities, yet not without cause.

Despite this, she had noticed how Arthur looked paler then usual since the execution, how his eyes were haloed in sleeplessness. She had noticed the stiffness in which he moved, the subtle flinches when his new manservant approached and the sidelong glances towards such servant that held little more than contempt and a deep seated guilt.

And that has been going on for a week or so now, but this Arthur, the Arthur staring into his evening meal as if it contained the answers to the universe, is different still. Where before his eyes had been blank, and he had eaten with stiffness she would only have previously attributed to a statue, is now scowling into his meal, confusion igniting blue flames behind his usually emotionless eyes. He plays with his food thoughtfully, stabbing, prodding and shifting it around his plate, his mask of considerable propriety that he always wears around his father, forgotten in favour of other concerns.

In a way, Morgana likes the change. It is easier to look at a scowling Arthur than a vacant one; the scowl reminds her of so many different times growing up – it has a sense of familiarity to it that almost comforts her.

Uther, too, has noticed the change, but his face is as hidden as usual, his mouth slack as he observes between bites and his eyes hooded so that Morgana has no chance of deciphering any emotion raging behind those almost black orbs – if any are at all.

So she keeps her silence and ignores Gwen's questioning glances when she rises from the table in unison with her near-brother. Only then does the Crown Prince glances at her, their eyes colliding momentarily before he looks away. He seems almost ashamed.

She utters a quaint, polite good night to her guardian, a pleasantry that Arthur ignores as he sweeps out of the room, his manservant trailing behind, head bowed low in a quiet reverence Merlin would never have shown. Morgana swallows, and pushes away the thought. Now is not the time to plagued by loss.

"You may leave," she hears Arthur say with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I will not require your service for the rest of the evening." The servant boy disappears almost immediately. This is also new. With Merlin, Arthur would order his presence for even the most mundane and boring moments for no other reason than to irritate the servant – these days Arthur seemed to barely be able to tolerate the presence of his knights, let alone a servant.

"Gwen," Morgana whispers softly, and the darker skin female steps forward, head tilted in question. "Please leave us; I need to talk to Arthur. I think it best if you weren't there." Those delightfully dark eyes flick between her mistress and the prince. When that gaze settles on Morgana for another minute, Gwen ducks her head in acknowledgement.

"Of course," she answers. "I'll be readying your bed chamber."

"Thank you." Morgana turns away, watching Arthur progress up the corridor. She starts after him, the luxurious fabrics of her dress shifting behind her noisily in the silence of the air.

"Arthur."

The princes' halt could be described as a flinch. He doesn't turn to face the woman, only pauses, head tilted to show he is listening.

"Morgana." It is stiff and formal. Something in her stomach clenches at the sound. They have never been formal, not with each other. They bicker, they taunt, they argue, but they are never so formal and distant.

"Look at me," she commands softly, there is a pregnant pause, before Arthur turns and gazes down at her. There is a distance of a few metres between the almost-siblings, and yet even she can detect the sense of helplessness in Arthur's gaze. She is looking at the boy she had forgotten rather than the man she scorned. She steps forward, eyes soft and searching.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing." A knee-jerk reaction. A bit out answer he can't help. A protective reflex he would never grow out of. The Crown prince of Camelot doesn't have problems – he isn't allowed them. To say he had problems would be to admit he had weaknesses and the Crown Prince of Camelot isn't allowed weaknesses.

"Don't insult me, Arthur," Morgana snaps a little more harshly than intended. "I am not stupid nor am I blind. Do not treat me as such." Her eyes flash darkly, and the power she exudes forcibly reminds Arthur of the White Lady.

Morgana advances once again, closing the distance between them. "You can tell me Arthur."

His resulting laugh is bitter. "Why do you even care? I lost –." The blonde cuts himself off and shakes his head, leaving the statement unfinished. "Leave me, Morgana, I am tired." He goes to turn away, but Morgana grips his wrist with surprising strength.

"You haven't been sleeping, Arthur, you barely eat." Her eyes soften once more with concern. "You are obviously not okay. And despite what you _did_ –," did the stoic prince just flinch? – "I will not allow you to run yourself into the ground. Merlin would be upset to see you like this."

"It doesn't matter what Merlin would think because Merlin is _dead_," Arthur hisses, his eyes flashing like lightening.

"Arthur..." It is more like an exhale than a word and Arthur's tensed shoulders relax with resignation. He knows Morgana is not about to leave him alone. There is a silence that stretches between – for years or seconds, Arthur never can tell.

"If you –," he breaks off for a moment, debating with himself. He shakes his head and swallows. He avoids Morgana's gaze, instead staring out into the dusty sunset. "If you could go back in time," he continues in a low voice, so low in fact, that Morgana has to lean closer to catch it, "and change any one thing, or correct a past mistake – _whatever_ – where would you go and what would you do?"

The question catches her off guard. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens before it closes again. She moves so that she is standing beside Arthur, hands resting on the window pane as she too favours her gaze with the view.

"I'm not sure," she answers finally, voice contemplative and quiet. "But I think... if such an opportunity could arise, I think I would go back to the last argument I had with my father." Arthur's gaze flickers to her face, as if surprised she even answered before lowering to the window. "It wasn't long before he died, it was over something silly." Morgana smiles sadly, glances at Arthur, whose eyes are downcast, before continuing. "I would stop that argument from happening; I would instead back down, ask for his forgiveness and tell him I love him." She blinks and straightens her shoulders for a moment. Then those blue eyes clear and fixate on Arthur. "Why do you ask?"

The prince shrugs, standing. "Curious," he answers shortly before gracing her with his attention. "Good night Morgana," he says with a slight bow of his head that in any other situation would've been mocking, before he turns away and disappears from sight, leaving Morgana no closer to discovering what exactly is bothering him.

/\/\

"The prince has been acting odd, don't you think?"

"Most distracted – he missed Kays near blunder at practise the other day. A focused Arthur would never have done that."

"Come on, you don't expect him to be so focused after what happened do you? We all know he was friendly with Merlin, hell most of us were – he was infectious – how do you think he feels that he turned out to be a _sorcerer_? I admire his strength to do the right thing even though it clearly pained him."

"When he is king there will be a fair amount of betrayal, he needs to get used to it."

"You callous –"

"Shut up, he's coming over."

Arthur hadn't slept. He had tossed and turned and sleep evaded him like a reluctant lover. His knights can tell this. His eyes are glassy with tiredness, his motions heavy. He isn't focused. The knights shift guiltily as they quieten their chatter and eye their prince.

Arthur ignores their stares, simply growls out some orders for them to start their practise and observes them unseeingly with a moody expression. He had been plagued by nightmares when sleep did bless him, of stifling flames and shocking blue eyes. He dreamt of cheeky smiles, proclamations of loyalty and light teasing. He saw dead blue eyes, saw a charred corpse with eyes that were swirling with a storm of agony and blame and fury. He hear Merlin scream in his ears sometimes, and in others he just stared into those horribly forgiving eyes as _he_ burned.

And he had awaken from each snippet of rest with embarrassingly damp cheeks. He can't escape the memory of his old manservant. Even when laying amongst his pillows wishing for sleep, he can't avoid or suppress the thoughts. They just came to him, fluttering in front of him tauntingly.

_Arthur hates the dungeons. They are filthy and the stench is quite often unbelievable. The prisoners are coarse and oftentimes the guards are worse. But he ventures there anyway, nodding to the guards with a slight incline of his head. It is late, he knows, but he can't help himself. He couldn't sleep, not when he knows that the dawn of tomorrow would bring along the destruction of someone he had once held so dear. Someone he still holds so dear._

_He pauses just outside of the cell, hesitating, before he moves forward. He drags his eyes up from the dirty floor, and glances around the pitiful cell. There, laying on a bundle of hay and soiled sheets, is his manservant, his Merlin. A sorcerer – he would've laughed if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes._

_He looks so small, curled up on the floor and shivering. The moonlight streams in from the window, illuminating the curve of a ivory neck and Merlin shifts slightly in slumber. A wry smile, tainted by sorrowful darkness tigs at the young princes' lips. Trust Merlin to sleep so peacefully on his last night on Earth. _

_The Prince swallows. He wishes he could step into the cell, and touch Merlin, just one last time. Hit him maybe, for his stupidity, or embrace him and ease away the near violent shudders with his own warmth. But he does neither. Instead he simply turns his back, eyes shadowed, and walks away, missing the small movement of the prisoner on the bed and the softly spoken, "Goodbye, my prince."_

Arthur blinks, realising just in time that Gareth has just made a mistake that would result in him being so very dead if they were in a real battle. As the prince delivers his scolding – which is admittedly harder than it should have been – more images flitter past his minds' eye, taunting him.

"_Whoa. What are you doing?" Arthur stares at his manservant, who has moved towards him with his arms out as if – _

"_I thought you were going for a hug."_

– _To embrace him. Idiot. _

_Arthur frowns and steps back. "No." He drags the word out for emphasis and misses Merlin short repetition of the word and cheeky grin as he is already stalking off. He is frowning, and he shouldn't because frowns will age him horribly, but he can't help it. Merlin had just gone to hug him and Arthur wishes he could say his protestation had been complete disgust and annoyance, but that annoying, niggling voice that crops up at the most inappropriate times giggles and whispers the most fantastical crock of bull he has ever heard. _

_Of course he isn't faintly disappointed that Merlin didn't carry through with his mindless act like he would usually have done. No, of course not. How ridiculous. _

Arthur shakes himself from the reverie, noticing that his knights are staring at him. Heglances at each of them and sighs. "Leave, practise is over." He waits until only his oldest, most faithful knights remains to drag a hand down his face wearily.

"Sire." Arthur raises an eyebrow in question. Geraint stands in front of him, chocolate eyes filled with concern. "Are you all right?" His words are soft, coaxing a confession. Arthur eyes him, before redirecting his gaze elsewhere. He coughs, clearing his thought before frowning a little.

His voice is firm when he speaks, betraying little. "If you could change something of the past, what would you change?"

Geraint frowns. "Excuse me?"

Arthur throws him a withering glance. "Just answer the damn question."

"I suppose I would tell my brother I didn't hate him, that I forgave him for his wrongs and no longer blamed him for the death of our sister." Geraint sports a faraway look before nodding firmly to himself. "Yes. I would tell him I still cared, and didn't mean what I had said."

"Is that so...?" It's stated pensively, Arthur eyes glazed from thoughts concealed from the rest of the world. Both Geraint and Morgana had said the same kind of things. They would forgive those they have lost. They would tell them they cared, or even loved them. They spoke of revealing their feelings, and truths.

Granted this is only two peoples' opinions, but it, Arthur thinks moving away from the training ground, it is food for thought.

/\/\

Gaius' workshop seems so small now, which is strange considering Merlin is never around to disrupt it. Arthur gazes around the room, noting how orderly it is. There are no left out herbs or ingredients, no bits of clothing or those ridiculous neckerchiefs he always used to wear. It is clean and tidy and yet despite it being back to the condition it had been before the troublesome country boy had appeared, it had never seemed more empty.

"Sire?" Gaius doesn't look at the prince with disdain, nor does he treat him any differently. But his eyes, as watery and aged as they are, have never held such a tint of sadness for so long. Arthur finds he cannot bring himself to meet them, and instead gazes intently at the mortar and pestle sitting innocently on the side.

"I can't sleep," he admits tightly. "I was wondering if I may... if I can have a sleeping draught." He feels those experienced eyes study him for a moment, before the man ducks away towards the various tinctures and potions sitting on the side.

"Of course sire." Then there is a cool bottle being pressed into the princes palm and he forces himself to look up at Gaius' face. He nods his thanks and quickly turns away – he can't bear to be here any longer, not here where Merlin had lain almost dying for him, sweating from a poison meant for the prince. He grit his teeth and rested his hand on the door handle when Gaius' voice cut through the silence. He spoke quietly, but then again, with the words he spoke he didn't need to be loud.

"He loved you, you know."

Arthur's hand squeezed the door handle without mercy as he shoulders tensed before he straightened his back and tore open the door, leaving it to slam behind him once he marched out.


	6. Chapter Five: More Than This

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricist. _

_**Notes: **__Couldn't make this any longer than it is. I am not too sure on this chapter, I think I stretched it out for far too long... but never mind. I can't be bothered to change it now. *Shrugs* Two more parts and possibly a epilogue. _

_But yeah, tell me what you think. I am not that fond of this part. Please do point out nay mistakes you might find, I am terrible at proof reading lol. _

**Chapter Five: More Than This**

"_I played a fool, yeah I played a losing game and let go of my innocence. And I don't know, I'll never be the same. Can I just be more than this?"– More Than This, Shane Mack_

The next is a beautiful one. The courtyard is basking in the light of the yawning sun. The market in the lower streets is in full swing, merchants yelling and chickens battering their wings. There is the buzz and hype of hundreds of different conversations all melding into one cacophony of noise with undertones of wheeling gulls and whinnying horses and the beat of a millions pairs of feet trekking across the pathways.

Amongst the swells and flashes of rough, coloured wool and fabrics lingers a flash of the purest of white, soft and glimmering as it weaves in and out of the common folk towards its destination. The fabric is untouched by the filth of the floor, remains unsullied by streaks of mud or stains of mud, or much worse.

As the clocked figure moves through the crowd, it attracts glances and outright stares. The townspeople whisper in its wake, wondering about gender and status and other essentially unimportant things that often catch the simpler minded and cause for gossip.

Only does the figure stop when it is in the courtyard, a shimmering white against the whitewashed stonework of the place. It doesn't lower its' hood, never would it be so stupid as to do that but one can tell that those hidden eyes sweep the windows and can feel the smile radiate from within the shadows of the concealed face.

"Perhaps, Emrys, your choice to leave your heart in the hands of this particular young fool was not a huge mistake," it murmurs, granting anyone near by a clue to its' gender – no male could speak so soothingly. "Perhaps..." she hums in a satisfaction kept to herself before she disappears into the crowd.

/\/\

The second day is bleeding into late evening quicker than Arthur would like. A deep sense of urgency tenses his limbs and throws his thoughts. He can't escape the answers to his question nor the haunting memories that plague him not only in the smeared inkiness of night but during the illuminated summer's day as well.

A shocking blue trails after him, blue ringed by a gold that shouldn't exist – a gold that signifies all that Arthur has been taught is wrong or unnatural.

And then of course, he had Gaius's parting comment to contend with. _He loved you._ Had he? Did sorcerers know love? His father has always taught Arthur that sorcerer and magic-users knew little other than contempt and evil and maliciousness. And, more importantly, just what context did Gaius mean? If Merlin could indeed love as well as he acted he could, what kind of love did he feel for the prince?

What kind of love does Arthur want to believe he had felt?

Friendly. Of course, he wants it to be a friendly kind of love. He wants to know that he was respected and valued and liked as much as he had respected and valued and liked. Everyone wants to know that their feelings are returned. And Arthur had considered the sorcerer a friend, a servant above that of course, but a friend came in a close, _close _second.

The prince swallows. His headache is far from receding – much like the tainted, confusing memories and words that worm around his head, breathing fiery exhaustion like a dragon. It is too _much. _Everything is swirling, thoughts are collided and smashing and crashing around his head like the ocean in a storm – it's pure chaos.

The prince rubs at his head despairingly. If he cannot sort out his thoughts, mere metaphysical things inside his own head, how will he ever control a whole bloody kingdom when he comes to take the throne? It's downright impossible.

He sighs and sits up. There are facts. Facts he can think about. Then they are his own thoughts on these facts. Of course, then there are assumptions, things displayed as facts but are, in fact only hearsay and interpretations due to it being delivered by the word of someone else and not the man himself (okay, there is only one of those, but it is damn well important enough to warrant its own category) and of course, he had to think about his own reactions to _that_ long and hard.

So, there is the fact that Merlin is dead. There really isn't much Arthur can say to that. Merlin is dead. Does he feel sorry? Sad? Guilty? Well, if he logically looks through his emotions, breathes steadily and calms his mind to focus on _just that damnit, _then he would have to admit that yes he does feel all those things. Merlin had been a good friend, and Arthur does feel the loss as keenly as he would if one of his knights were to fall in battle. Which, Arthur believes, is perfectly understandable when you take away the fact that Merlin had been executed for treason and just focused on that fact that he is dead.

Second fact is that White Lady has claimed to have the power to change time. Now, Arthur, if he thought about this rationally, could see all sorts of things that could go wrong with this. First of all, magic is wrong – period. Who knows what this sorcerer will hold over his head, for there is no way that a sorcerer would offer such a gift without wanting something in return... is there?

Third fact is he has until sundown tomorrow to chose a moment to go back to change. And when did this all become about Merlin? There are plenty of things Arthur has done that he wishes he hadn't. Why does this chance automatically make him think back to Merlin? The boy was a traitor, a liar and a magic-user. He was the lowest of the low. So what _else_ is there that Arthur could choose in order to take advantage of this opportunity? There is something else he wants to change... there _must_ be... Merlin wasn't that important.

Another would be that Merlin actually was a sorcerer. If he did somehow alter things to bring him back – god knows _how_ – would he be okay with knowing that Merlin was a sorcerer? A lifelong teaching and prejudice, no _loathing, _isn't exactly easy to let go of, even in the face of a good friend. He can't, even thinking about it now, thinking about magic-users and how they think they have the right to manipulate not just nature but other people – no. He just couldn't drop all of that, all that hatred and that inbred dislike for all things strange. After all, what good had magic brought him so far?

But... Arthur shifts, a frown marring his face. He could _try_ to accept it, he supposes. Arthur is not a man who is purposefully unjust... maybe he could _attempt_ to understand, ensure that Merlin kept his power in check and used it only for good.

But is that even possible? Aren't magicians and sorcerers bred to be innately evil?

Arthur shakes his head, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and burying his head in his hands. God, thinking over the facts is exhausting. He tries unsuccessfully to soothe his temples. So what about the assumptions? _He loved you, you know._ He shakes his head, that is even more difficult to wrap his head round.

He thinks back over the answers various people had given him. He had even approached his father, and asked him in an abstract way what he would do, if given the chance – purely hypothetical, of course.

And his father had gotten a faraway, glassy look in his eye, the look he always got but hid a lot better when he thought of Arthurs' dear departed mother.

"I would ensure," Uther had enunciated carefully, "that neither your mother nor you would have died on your birth day. I would ensure that someone _else _died instead." Dark look in his eye had convinced Arthur that Uther had, disturbingly, already had someone picked out. The answer itself had been a puzzle, after all how could his father have made sure his mother hadn't died? Arthur has known for a while that it is a risk women take when they conceive a child, medicine does all that it can, but death flies on swift wings, especially in the lower towns and outland villages where the knowledge was limited. But the look in his eye, the regret and the love and the care had been the same as Geraint and Morgana or even Gaius.

They would all help a loved one; tell them that they were loved or forgiven or just that they cared. Only his father, however, had voiced a need to keep that one person from death, just that they could say one last thing to them.

Arthur sits up. Is that the answer? But what does he have to say to Merlin. Sorry, but I am going to be the one that ensures your execution? What did Gaius mean when he told me that you loved me? You might lack the subservient skills required for your position, but you're a good friend? Thanks for saving me that time with the mad singer and the dagger? Sorry I've been such a prat, forgive me?

They just wouldn't cut it. It's ridiculous, to think that mere words would cause such a change. Arthur frowns. What would he say to the young sorcerer? What words would convey the correct meaning without sounding flouncy or like those damnable ballads Morgana is so fascinated with?

"_I have not forgotten your lazy, insolent ways, and the fact you called me a clotpole. But I do have to admit there was some truth in your accusations against Cedric."_

"_Does this mean you are admitting that in this occasion I was actually right?"_

"_Not exactly, no. It means I have a knighthood to bestow first thing tomorrow and no-one to clean my armour."_

Arthur has never apologised. He hardly ever apologised to Merlin when it had turned out that perhaps, there were a few things that Merlin might've been more perceptive of then he. But then, of course, he would be, what with his probable consorting with such types of criminals.

"_You're a prat. And a royal one."_

"_Are you ever going to change, Merlin?"_

"_No, you'd get bored. Promise me this, if you get another servant, don't get a bootlicker."_

Merlin had said that once. As he had burned and their eyes had connected, Arthur had been forced to wonder if that had been one of those delicate lies, forced from his lips in order to keep his place at Arthur's side. He had sounded as though the fool was going to die and even know Arthur is perplexed about what was going on when Merlin had declared such strange, seemingly heartfelt things.

"_If this is you trying to leave your job..."_

"_No. I'm happy to be your servant, till the day I die."_

Why does this conversation, above all others, haunt the future king so? Why do Merlins' resound around his head, and have done since the execution. What is it that keeps them there, what is it that makes Arthur need to analyze and reanalyse the phrases and remember the dead servants' eyes as he spoke them?

"_Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times."_

"_Well, I know you. And you're a great warrior. One day you'll be a great King."_

"_That's very kind of you."_

"_But you must learn to listen as well as you fight."_

"_Any more pointers?"_

"_No. That's it. Just don't be a prat."_

Merlin had always been the only one who could get away with insulting Arthur so. If it had been anyone else, Arthur would've thrown them in the stocks – but never Merlin. Arthur had looked upon his insubordination with almost a strange kind of pleasure, as if the knowledge that his status as Crown Prince and Once and Future King didn't affect the way Merlin acted was almost... treasured.

Arthur sits up straighter, hands clenching to fists on his knees. Why was that? Why was Merlin so special? Why did Arthur value his obnoxious smiles and manners that left much to be desired? Why does he miss Merlin's version of tidying up – which was really just moving the mess to a different place for a while – and the way he blundered into a room without a care, and would flush a brilliant shade of red when irritated or embarrassed?

He doesn't... he _never_...

Arthur swallows. He doesn't love Merlin. That is by far too strong an emotion, and besides, Merlin is a sorcerer. But he does have to wonder if it has been only now, thinking back over Merlins' blush that he had wondered if he blushed the same under very _different_ circumstances, or was that musing always there, unvoiced in the back of his mind.

Arthur swallows, and the way that his mind quite easily slides into thoughts and imaginings he can quite easily detect that no, it isn't a new thought.

Arthur rubs his eyes. He doesn't love Merlin – you can't love something you hate, despite the stupid saying of thin lines. But perhaps... perhaps you can, maybe, _desire _such a thing.

And maybe it would be excusable to perhaps, change time after such a desire. That wouldn't be wrong, would it? Just a taste to quench a thirst before the well runs dry. That's fine. Arthur nods. Maybe not even a taste, but just perhaps telling the well that you would like a sample, or wouldn't be too adverse to it. That you wouldn't forcibly take a sip, but wouldn't mind... that you would like to, perhaps see how far whatever was remaining would stretch until the eventual running-dry.

That wasn't wrong, was it?


	7. Chapter Six: Here Again

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricist. _

_**Notes: **__AHHHHH! Forgive me, please. I didn't mean to just like, die you know? But things happened, inspiration was lost... My excuses are pathetic but please forget me. I refuse to let such a long time happen between this and the next part, especially since the next part is the last._

_Um.. OH I went to the Merlin premiere a few weeks ago!__ GOD! It was _**amazing**_. __ I've seen the first two episodes already – and I adore them. I know everyone here has probably already watched the first one. But god, I love it. I died laughing xD I love how Merlin and Arthur interact. _

_Um with this, I fear I have lost the heart to write it, but I will finish it. And I may rewrite those chapters I haven't yet, so like, from four or five onwards. Sorry if this seems really shit now, or if my writing has changed slightly. I just haven't been in the mood for writing recently :/ Not sure why. My muse is dead. Anyways, on with the story, it's what your here for! Lol. _

_Sorry no lemon. I don't feel comfortable writing it just yet. I have written one piece in 'Loveless' but I'm not sure it was all that good. My confidence in that area isn't great. So sorry. UNBETA'D! And written fairly late, please do point out any mistake. _

**Chapter six: You belong to Me**

"It's strange that I should meet you here. It's obvious we're desperate to comprehend the time that we have left. Even if we could, you would understand this conversation is the end of us." – Here Again (Last Conversation), Fight Star

_The day is inconsequential, Arthur remembers. He had not a specific moment in time in his mind when he went to the sorceress. He couldn't think of one. He knows it is a summers' day. The heat of the sun and the vibrancy of the laughter below in the lower city is proof enough of the general cheer summer carries on its downy wings._

_He stands in the main court. His father is speaking of something Arthur doesn't bother to pay attention to. Why should he? The need for such information has passed. The thought is a little strange, but the queasy clenching of his stomach is enough to remind him that the sun he basks in and the wind that whispers warm secrets has died already. _

_He feels disorientated. He blinks rapidly, his eyes feeling oddly dry –his mouth tastes of sand. His muscles, when he experimentally, inconspicuously disturbs them are uncomfortably stiff. It is as if the flesh he occupies is not his own – which in an abstract way he can understand. It isn't his, this particular body belongs to the past him, suppressed somewhere in the back of his mind, slumbering and dormant._

_Arthur glances around himself as the King continues his counsel. A man to the right of him speaks up in a low monotone, but the words mean little to the prince as he takes in his surroundings. He watches the men he is familiar with, wincing a little when he notices a scar or bruise he has seen on the present-day versions that are not evident yet on these absorbed and involved faces. _

_Morgana is absent as usual, Uther deeming such matters of war and politics too dark and masculine for one such as herself. She probably lounged in her room with Gwen or travelled through the citadels and markets, shopping for whatever she fancied. Vanity, Arthur muses with a small smile threatening to ruin his stoic expression, is her greatest flaw. Not that it is undeserving of course._

_The throne room is large, the voices echoing along the gilded walls. Dust dances in the air, illuminated by the suns' smile. A pleasant draft wanders in through the propped open door, distilling the humidity that growls on by the outskirts of the room like a baying wolf, threatening suffocation. _

_Then Arthur turns, crystal blue eyes falling on Gaius, who is staring back with a questioning look. His expression is almost knowing, as if he knows something is wrong, that the eyes Arthur looks through are slightly wiser, a little more broken and maybe a little hopeful. But he forces his eyes to skim past those knowing orbs, casually setting just behind Gaius._

_His breath catches. His lungs freeze. _

_There Merlin stands, back straight and eyes forward, but eyes slightly glazed over in boredom. His eyes blink lazily, momentarily blocking Arthur's view of starling blue before revealing them once more. His mouth is a little slack in a small dopey smile that Arthur is sure only encourages his father's impression that he is mentally slow. Merlins' hands hang loosely by his sides. His chest moves, wonderfully it moves with the breath Merlin is sucking into his lungs. His muscles twitch slightly, he shifts his footing, scratches his arm, tugs at the hem of his ugly shirt._

_His hair is scruffy and inky black, his skin is pearly white, his eyes sapphire blue, his lips rose red. His ears are still brilliantly big, and Arthur is pleased to find he had not been exaggerating the size of his ears in his memories._

_Oh, but he is breathing! He is thinking! Moving! Active! He is _alive_! His skin isn't peeling away from charred bones, blackened and crumbling. His blue eyes are staring up at him with a sickening mix of forgiveness and agony and the echo of betrayal. _

_Arthur swallows. He is frozen. Numbed from all external factors. Guilt and sorrow and joy and relief crash and collide in his mind, slamming and spinning like a whirlpool. They wash away all over thought in their violent, thrashing spinning. _

_Merlin. Alive. _

_Merlin _alive_!_

_Then, as if sensing an intense gaze upon him, Merlin glances around, shaken from his daydreaming with a faint flush to his cheeks. Those startling eyes settle on Arthur's near immediately and he smiles a small smile in bemusement, before his gaze flick to the front before he nods his head a little insistently, staring at the prince with open confusion. _

_Arthur jerks his head back around, jolting out of his shock and facing his fathers' gaze. His eyebrow is raised and his expression is far from amused._

"_Well, Arthur. What do you think?"_

_The prince is stumped. What did he think of _what_? He doesn't know. Oh damn... what if he says the wrong thing? What if he says the wrong thing and messes everything up. He wets dry lips. An uncharacteristic motion. _

"_Well father..." he says slowly. "I... agree?" He comes out as a question, and the proud prince winces at the hesitation in his voice. There is a slight pause, before Uther inclines his head in appeasement before barking orders to someone near him. Arthur visibly relaxes, resisting the urge to sigh in relief. _

_Then there is a rush of movement. Cloaks swish and boots thud against the wooden floor. And Arthur finds it hard to speak. He turns, stiffly, uncertain. Merlin is gazing at him, head tilted like a curious puppy. Gaius has also paused in his retreat, staring at the prince with a medically practised eye as if fearing for the prince's health. Arthur has to look away from Merlin to find his voice, which, he finds, is cowering somewhere within his throat. _

"_Merlin, follow me." It escapes his lips harsher than the prince intended, colder and more authoritative. The gangly boy blinks at him before nodding. Arthur can feel those eyes scorch his back as they venture silently through the castle. The shock is slowly wearing off with each pacing step, his old resolve to always finish what he starts returning. _

_He pushes open his bedroom door and leaves it gaping wide for Merlin to trail through and close with a sharp snap. There is a pregnant pause in which Arthur quietly observes the boy in front of him, scrutinizing with light eyes._

_Then the moment is broken by him striding forward and throwing his arms around the slight creature, securely hugging him close. He feels how Merlin tenses before he relaxes with a soft confused chuckle. There is an awkward pat to his back._

"_Um... Arthur?" Merlin asks tentatively. "What are you doing?" The words act as a catalyst. Arthur shoves him away, eyes flashing with something Merlin can't decipher. He isn't sure he wants to. _

"_I know Merlin." The words are quiet and yet even in the loudest din; they would've carried so perfectly. The glimmer of fear in those eyes is unmistakable, and it pains Arthur to have to see them it for a second time. Raw, unadulterated fear. Fear of him. Fear of Uther. Fear of the coming consequences. _

_His heart clenches. _

Never again_. And it's a vow, an unbreakable promise. _I can't kill you again.

"_Know what?" Light, curious. Oh, doesn't he act so well? Applaud the gracious denial that tumbles from those lips. _

_Sharp, calculating eyes are too much for the faux innocence before him. "I _know."_ Arthur allows this to sink in. "I know of your... ability." He struggles around the word, spitting it out like poison without meaning to. He doesn't need to reiterate it, Merlin understood from the very beginning. _

_Before his very eyes the boy deflates. Impossibly, Merlin pales further, his eyes deadening but not quite loosing that spark of defiance – that would came later, Arthur reminisces with a razor sharp gab to his side. _

"_Arthur... Arthur, please, before you make judgements I can explain," Merlin almost whispers, his eyes begging for the prince to understand. "I... I can explain everything, I –"_

_Arthur is nodding his head. He never bothered to listen to it before. He had cut Merlin's begging off with cruel eyes and a crueller tongue. "An explanation..." he mutters distantly. "Yes, I would like one."_

_Merlin swallows. "I would never hurt you, Arthur, or Camelot. This is my home and you are my friend. I would never, never use my magic to harm you in any way. You have to believe that." Those eyes never waver from Merlin's face. "I have only used my magic to help you, I swear. I have only sought to protect you and never once have I been tempted to go against that. You have to believe me, please."_

_Arthur considers. There is earnestness in the boys' voice, seemingly genuine. It is those eyes; those eyes are breaking him, gazing at him wide with a sensible fear and a need for the blonde to understand. Arthur wrenches his gaze away and stares fixedly to the floor. _

_The sight of Merlin jolted him. And the knowledge that blood once again rushed through those veins of his, gave him pleasure and joy. Seeing the dark haired idiot again, ignited something within his heart and mind that had been stifled by the mourning winds of death and loss. Fingers grasp at his heart, fingers of something akin to affection and unbearable pain at the thought of loosing such a remarkable man again. _

"_I can't..." Arthur's voice cracks as he thinks of his condemning of the apparently innocent country boy in front of him. He coughs and gazes up at Merlin once again. The latter steps back, chewing his lip at the intensity of the emotions raging in the eyes that fixed on him almost hesitantly. "I can't... _kill_ you again."_

"_Wha –?"_

_Arthur waves him silent. "I just _can't," _he continues. "But I can't... magic is wrong Merlin. It is evil and wrong and the source of all plagues and darkness that befall us! How... what...? It's hard Merlin. It's going to take...I don't know... Accepting it... Do you understand Merlin?"_

_The blank look on Merlin's face is all Arthur needs to see. The prince sighs, falling to sit on teh corner of his bed his head in his hands. _

"_I don't know what to do Merlin..." he confesses a little desperately. "I have a duty to my father, to my king and his kingdom to report you and put you on trial. But... I can't... I can't do that. But I can't accept this magic you have. All I know is that it is wrong, it is the source of all evil and the troubles of Camelot..." there is a moment's silence. "Tell me what to do..." Arthur finally whispers, sounding broken and childlike. He is sickened with himself. _

_Weak._

_Pathetic. _

_Useless. _

_But he feels the mattress dip beside him as Merlin settles next o him and hesitantly reaches out a hand to touch the prince's shoulder. When he finds his hand isn't being shaken off – in fact the prince hasn't reacted at all, but Merlin bypasses that thought, still skittish and yet needing to comfort his liege and friend – wraps his arm around Arthurs' shoulder. _

_And Arthur allows the fleeting comfort, revelling in the warmth of Merlin's body before he drags himself away. He studies Merlin's face, so open, so fearful and yet sympathetic. _

"_You have to do what you feel is right, Arthur," Merlin answers seriously, eyes unblinking. "You are to be king one day, and you must do what is best for the kingdom."_

"_What if I want to be selfish?" Arthur isn't sure what he is saying or what he even means by it. He isn't sure of anything right now. His mind is meddled and aching. _

_There is a ghost of a smile. "When aren't you selfish?" Merlin retorts with joviality that is only half forced. Another pregnant silence. Arthur seems conflicted, mouth set in a firm line before he nods stiffly to himself. He leans forward pressing his lips to Merlin's in a desire he knew lingered there but hadn't realised he wanted to act upon so much before. _

_Merlin makes a noise of surprise, eyes shocked wide, before he moves away. "Wait," Arthur says grabbing a wrist. "Let me assure myself you're alive..." Merlin studied those eyes, so lost and confused. Arthur's mask had shattered about their feet – and what he witnesses there is heartbreaking. And hadn't this been what Merlin had secretly wanted for a while now? Even if he hadn't, who was he to refuse something asked so brokenly?_

_So Merlin nods slowly, closing his eyes to Arthur's expression before returning his lips to Arthurs and letting his friend take whatever answers and assurance he needed from his willing body, heart and soul without asking for anything in return._

Is it obvious I have lost inspiration for this? Forgive me if it is. One more part to go.


	8. Finale: So Happy I Could Die

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. All lyrics used belong to the respective bands and lyricist. _

**_Notes: __I shouldn't feel so relieved that it's ended but I am. I like this story, I really do even though I feel the plot idea is a little cliché (in my mind anyway) and I rewrite the last few parts but it's done for now._**

I just want to say thank you to everyone who read, everyone who put this on their favourites and me on their favourites and who commented as well. It's only because I felt so bad of leaving all you guys hanging that I continued tbh, so I wanna thank you all. Thank you for putting up with the possible OOC and the grammatical mistakes (I'm too lazy to look through my work probably xD)

So yeah thanks a lot __

I am thinking of starting another Merlin story, with will be mainly humour and most probably Merthur. But I'm not sure on that yet. Anyways, enjoy.

**Finale: So Happy I Could Die**

"_So happy I could die, be your best friend. Yeah I'll love you forever." – So Happy I Could Die, Lady Gaga_

A body lies in the middle of a clearing, crumpled like a broken doll and yet as tranquil as a slumbering child. The warm air caresses the exposed skin and ruffles golden hair. The body's chest slowly rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. The hum of the forest curls and drifts over him, the smell of pine and flowers and the ruddy scent of mud unconsciously slide over his senses as he apparently sleeps in peace.

A woman stands there. Although drenched in the purest white silk, she seems to fade into the background – so at home with the nature that breathes life around her. The water follows gently, brightly coloured fish barely skimming the surface as they dart every which way in the undercurrent.

Her eyes study the prone form she had laid gently on the spongy grass a few hours before hand, expression lax and yet somehow retaining an odd sense of fear and anxiety. The golden haired prince that will lead a reform of the country those blessed with magic fear to venture, the one who shall smash the chains binding the clerics of nature and the gods of an ancient and now forbidden religion. Her smile is soft, and almost fond.

For all his faults, for the treason to the sanctity of friendship, she could not deny that his sheer strength – both physically and that of his will – and his soft heart, albeit hidden behind a case of cracked and failing arrogance, will create in him a brilliant leader.

Just as that passing musing finishes, the White lady feels the breath in her lungs freeze in mid-motion, her muscles shocked still. All around her the noises of the forest slow and slur until all motion is stilled. Frozen in time and the cosmos rearranges itself and the history of a spurned and dark past is being altered, rewritten to accommodate this new and hopefully brighter future.

She staggers as the air which was once choked from her throat slams back into her lungs. Her mouth is forced open in a harsh gasp, her eyes shocked wide as her muscles tremble, faintly aching. She gazes around her, half expecting the current landscape to melt away and reform into brutal, cruel lines of darkness. It is a silly, fleeting fear. She knows the prince has chosen wisely.

The vibrant, almost musical hum of the forest inched up in volume and speed as everything returned to normal. The White Lady inhaled deeply, rejoicing in the scent of summer and smiling serenely, awaiting the rousing of the boy she watches so calmly.

_Welcome back, Emrys. _

/\/\

Blue eyes snap open as the once still body is thrown to the right and the contents of its stomach is propelled forth. The prince, only vaguely aware that his current position has stripped away all dignity, coughs, swallowing thickly and shuddering as his now empty stomach churns for a second go. He ensures to roll away from his vomit before he collides with the grass.

His head is pounding like a war drum. His chest is laboured. The world is spinning, twirling like a dancer until he closes his eyes against the burning sun and the sickening motion.

"Ah..." A musical exclamation. "I forgot about that little side affect." Amused, Arthur thought with annoyance. She is bloody _amused_. "It'll fade soon, the sickness and the aches. It's just the effect having your soul leave your body and then get sucked back in does to one."

Arthur would've made a snarky comment if he hadn't have been battling with the nausea that still gripped him with sly, competitive fingers.

"What's changed?" he forces out harshly a moment later, mouth dry and voice haggard from the vomiting. An arm is thrown over his eyes, his body as heavy as lead and refusing to obey his commands.

"It is late afternoon on the same day. You have not done any great damage, but I knowledge of some difference between this present and the past-present."

Arthur drags his arm off his face and glares at up at the woman. "What. Changed?"

The woman doesn't answer, only continues with an amused expression. "I am glad that you chose so well, young prince. Heavens, I shudder to think what could've happened if you had chosen wrongly, all the things –."

"Dammit woman! Tell me –." Arthur cuts off, ears straining as he forces himself upright. The White Lady smiles behind him, her eyes also straying to the left of the clearing.

Arthur blinks in concentration. Did he –?

"Arthur, you bloody prat!" There is a bumbling crash and a colourful curse. Thumping footsteps of a disgruntled person follow this, twigs snapping and branches whipping the air as they are forced out of the way. Finally, a gangly creature, knees stained with grass and a leaf in his hair stumbles into the clearing, expression annoyed.

"There you are!" Merlin crosses his arm and glares at the prince. "What did you think you were doing? Uther would've killed me if something happened to you, you selfish arse."

"Merlin..." Disbelief.

"Well, I should think so," the woman comments mildly, her smile evident in her words. "I didn't give you that opportunity for a simple goodbye now did I?" At her words, Merlin flicks his gaze to her and confusion settles on his face.

"And who is that?" Merlin's cobalt eyes narrow in a small frown and maybe just a hint of jealousy. "Arthur, I swear if you were..." he flexes his fingers threateningly and Arthur almost laughs. He scrambles to his feet and strides over, slamming his body into Merlin's in a fierce embrace.

"Merlin..." His hands are roaming and Merlin is finding it hard to remember just way he is so annoyed at the blonde haired prince. "Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_..." Arthur goes to kiss the dark haired, slightly hazy eyed sorcerer in his arms before Merlin wrinkles his nose in disgust and wriggled away.

"Erugh, have you been _sick_?" Merlin questions, cupping a hand around Arthur's mouth and leaning back. "You are not coming away where near me with those things if you have..." Arthur visibly sighs, raising an eyebrow and Merlin grins boyishly and shrugs, before removing his hand.

"I shall leave you two to it then, shall I?" The White Lady intones sweetly. "Until we meet again, Sire, Emrys." She inclines her head respectfully before melting into the forest. Arthur glances at Merlin, whose eyes are wide before he shakes his head in confusion. His eyes are fixed on the spot the woman had stood curiously.

"_Mer_lin." The warlock moves his gaze from the empty spot of greenery to the man in front of him. "Let's go." There is small smile of Arthur's face as his offered hand is taken by the smaller man and he leads the way out of the clearing.

Oh, Arthur knows this is going to be difficult. His fear and hatred for magic hasn't suddenly vanished in the face of more recently discovered feelings. He knows it will take time for him to adjust, if he ever does, to the power Merlin welds, to the memory of the anguish and pain and the sense of betrayal it had left him with. His nightmares will still be filled with darkness – with smouldering flames and unforgiving eyes. But, in this moment, in can forget all that. He can forget the power that thrums through Merlin's veins like a poisonous blaze, he can forget his heartless condemnation and the brutally torturous execution.

Here, laughing at Merlin who has just tripped over a tree root and is now sprawled on his stomach and paused to gather his breath, now as he insults Merlin ("You clumsy, idiotic moron! That root is as big as me, how could you not see it? And I though you grew up in the country!"), he can wash it away from his memory in the teasing waves of Merlin's voice.

Here he can lose himself in his own private world and be certain that everything will work out fine.

_Ah. All done. Sorry if the ending is lame. Thank you all for reading and reviewing and just plain taking an interest. I may write another fic, but as said in the AN it will be a humour and quite probably romance. :] Have a nice day everyone. _


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